Tom Cruise tallies a few
more neurons among
the morning's toll,
his forehead lolling
on the bar. Thunk.
In a word,
he is drunk.
Roger Donaldson's beside himself,
could shit bricks bigger than
the latest '88 cell in his hand,
hopes the producers understand:
"Tom's too shitfaced to stand.
There's just no fucking way
this poet scene
is getting shot today."
But booze-soaked Cruise
knows what to do:
a quick strategic upchuck
projected on the floor,
from deep up his sleeve
he retrieves a miracle
feat of sobriety, lugs himself
aboard the bar,
hauling ass, haphazard
as a forced rhyme.
He slurs the lines:
You want poets?
You want poets??
- Colin McSwiggen
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